


Tell Me I'm Frozen (But What Can I Do?)

by MaximumMarygold



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Grieving Bilbo, M/M, Thorin is dead guys sorry dont hate me, little frodo, post!BoFA, story time with uncle bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaximumMarygold/pseuds/MaximumMarygold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo wasn’t sure what Frodo told the inhabitants of The Shire, really, he wasn’t; because he didn’t change his demeanor; he didn’t suddenly recover. He was still jumpy, and wary, and, well, sad. But they didn’t whisper, they didn’t titter, they didn’t stare or point anymore. They just left him and his broken, frozen heart be.</p><p>Which, honestly, didn’t bother him in the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me I'm Frozen (But What Can I Do?)

It took Bilbo a long while to adjust to life in The Shire again after the quest to reclaim Erebor and the subsequent battle were all behind him; there were some who would even say that he never fully adjusted. He was always a little jumpy, a little wary, and a little, well, sad, after his return from that great adventure.

The inhabitants of Hobbiton noticed, of course they did, they were huge gossips with nothing better to to do than notice, the lot of them. They thought him a little mad which was just ridiculous. He was as sane as he ever was if he was ever sane at all.

A little _eccentric_? Perhaps.

A little _odd_? Probably.

But _mad_? No. No, Bilbo Baggins, for all of his un-hobbity qualities and apparently obscene fondness for dwarven cloth and elvish weaponry, was not mad.

He just realized, as the lot of them should probably do as well someday, that the world was more than forty leagues wide.

(The first time the dwarves of Erebor came to visit him after the kingdom had been reclaimed -a small party consisting of Bofur, Bombur, Dori, and Nori- the town nearly collapsed on itself.

Bilbo had simply rolled his eyes and shut the door tight behind Nori’s traveling cloak. He hadn’t even made them stomp their feet; the scandal!)

But the fact was that it never really bothered him, the whispering, the tittering, the staring, and the pointing when year after year passed and he made no particular effort to repent for his scandalous adventuring or to even attempt to court and marry one of the respectable hobbits that would no doubt have been lining up to become a part of the legendary Baggins’ Of Bag End.

He just simply could not be _bothered_.

Then, then Frodo came to live with Bilbo and the whispering, tittering, staring, and pointing got worse. Because now not only was he an adventurous bachelor hobbit now he was an adventurous bachelor hobbit _raising a child._

Not that Frodo was particularly young; he was twelve when his parents died and nearly fourteen by the time he got thrust into Bilbo’s care, but their point was heard nonetheless (like anyone had a choice in the matter when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had an opinion that she wanted known, the miserable old she-troll. Bilbo would gladly take on the entire remainder of Azog’s orc pack rather than spend one more Christmas with that harpy and her.)

Frodo was, however, old enough to notice the whispering and young enough to be bothered by it in the way that his ‘uncle’ just simply wasn’t.

He brought it up one Sunday after a trip to the market while Bilbo was pouring them their afternoon tea. “Uncle,” he said, “you’re not mad are you?”

Bilbo paused, his eyebrows raising almost to his hairline in an expression that was so purely his mother that he almost started to laugh, “I don’t think so.” He said, “Why?”

Frodo shrugged, stuffing half a sandwich in his mouth in one go. It made Bilbo smile, thinking of a dark haired dwarfling who he’d seen do the same thing once, “Some of the people in town think you are. They say not so nice things about it.” He frowned, “I put dirt in Molly Bramblehorn’s pockets for it just last Tuesday.”

 _Goodness_. Bilbo covered his mouth with one hand and made a mental note to write Nori about _that_ the second that he got his hands on a pen and some parchment. The thief would get a kick out it. “Did you, now? Well, come on, what do they say? No need to dilly around the subject, I’ve been called worse I assure you?” Shire Rat sprang immediately to mind and Bilbo clenched his fingers into a fist at the memory.

“They say that you’re alone because your heart is so cold. That you’re mad and your heart is made of ice and you are unmarried because you cannot love anyone here.” Poor little Frodo was genuinely troubled by the accusations and Bilbo held his arms out, letting his still-small nephew climb into his lap -he wasn’t going to be that small for that much longer, after all, they should both enjoy it while it lasted. Soon Frodo would probably be as tall as Fili had been.

“Well,” Bilbo said softly, “they have one thing right. I am unmarried because I cannot love anyone here; but not because my heart is cold, my lad. I have simply already loved someone who is far, far away from here.” His voice felt distant to his own ears as he recalled nights spent by a roaring fire and eyes as blue as the ice Molly Bramblehorn claimed his heart was made of.

“How far?” Frodo asked with the innocence only a young one could manage.

“Far too far, my dear Frodo.” Bilbo replied, “Far too far. Farther than far.” He smiled then, small, and sad, as his eyes stung, “Too far for me to touch him. Too far for me to do anything other than dream.”

Frodo settled against his uncle’s chest, afternoon tea well and truly forgotten, “Will you tell me about them?” He asked.

And so Bilbo did; he told Frodo about his adventures; of the trolls and the orcs, of the dragons and the battles, and of the dwarves. It was not a short tale by any means, in fact the sun had set by the time Bilbo finished, lightning bugs buzzing dully outside the windows as The Shire wound down for the day.

Frodo was silent for a few long moments after Bilbo stopped talking, “It was him, wasn’t it?” Frodo asked, “Thorin Oakenshield?” His eyes trailed to the frame over the mantle, where the contract Bilbo signed at the start of the journey hung. “Son of Thrain.”

“Son of Thror,” Bilbo continued, “King Under The Mountain.” He paused, “Or at least he should have been.” Not that he wasn’t sure that Dain was an absolutely marvelous king; he had all the faith in the world in Thorin’s cousin’s abilities; it was just always such a bitter pill to swallow. The idea that another ruled the mountain that Thorin had worked so hard to reclaim when all others had forsaken it.

Frodo hummed thoughtfully, “I see, now.” He said.

“See what, my lad?” Bilbo asked.

“Your heart.” Frodo tapped his uncle’s chest twice with two fingers, his large blue eyes seemingly even large with his unbelievable knowledge, “It isn’t _cold_ , Uncle, it’s _broken_.”

That was enough to give Bilbo pause, “I…” he let his eyes slide shut, the image of Thorin on the ice burned into the back of his lids like a picture in a frame, “Yes.” He finally said, “Yes, I suppose that’s it.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure what Frodo told the inhabitants of The Shire, really, he wasn’t. Because he didn’t change his demeanor; he didn’t suddenly recover. He was still jumpy, and wary, and, well, sad. But they didn’t whisper, they didn’t titter, they didn’t stare or point anymore. They just left him and his broken, frozen heart be.

Which, honestly, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Poor Bilbo D: He had it rough, bro.
> 
> As always, I love you bunches and be sure to check my cute lil butt out on Tumblr [HERE](http://stilesinerebor.tumblr.com/)


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